juniors know
a _little_ Latin, and so are a good deal more critical over that than
over the Greek. The French and German speeches however, restore them to
good humour, and then the speeches are done.

Then comes the noble Earl. He is an old, old man, and his voice is weak
and wavering, and scarcely any one hears a word he says. Yet how they
cheer him, those youngsters! They watch the back of his head, and when
it bobs then they know the end of a sentence has come, and they let out
accordingly.

"My dearie," says Bramble's grandmother, "don't stamp so. The poor old
gentleman can't hear his own voice."

"That's no matter," says "my dearie," pounding away with his feet. "If
we keep it up the old boy may give us an extra week's holiday."

The old lady subsided at this, in a resigned way; and certainly when the
good old nobleman did reach his final bob, his merry, jovial face looked
particularly promising for the extra week. And now the Doctor advances
to the table with the prize list in his hand. The prize boys are
marshalled in the background, in the order in which their names appear,
and Bramble tries hard to look as if nothing but his duty to his
grandmother would have kept him from forming one of that favoured band
himself.

The prize list is arranged backwards way; that is, the small boys come
on first and the great events last.

It is a treat to see the little mites of the First, Second, and Third
Junior trot up to get their prizes. They look so pleased, and they
blush so, and look so wistfully up to where their relatives are sitting,
that it is quite pathetic, and the good old Earl has a vigorous wipe of
his spectacles before he calls up the Fourth Junior.

"General proficiency," reads the Doctor from his list--"Watson." No one
knows Watson; he is quite an obscure member of the glorious community,
and so he trots in and out again without much excitement. In fact, all
the best prizes of the Form go without much applause, but when the
Doctor summons "Paul" to advance and receive "the second arithmetic
prize," there rises a shout enough to bring down the house.

"Bravo, Guinea-pigs!" shouts one small voice up somewhere near the
ceiling, whereat there is a mighty laugh and cheer, and Bramble turns
crimson in the face, and tells his grandmother gloomily, "That fellow
Paul is a beast!"

But the youth's face brightens when the next name is called: "Third
arithmetic--Padger."

Then doth Bramble the Ta